I know what you're all thinking. You think this is a lie and a fabrication! But it's not. Here's a picture I shot of Buttercup, the DR, in her hamstrung state:

Wait... no that's not it. This is the one:

Shit, sorry, I'm being a bit of a donkey here. This is it:

Luckily The Midge escaped injury when Buttercup sat down, otherwise the result would have been something very similar to this:

And let's face it - there isn't all that much of him to start off with.

And it's not an exaggeration of The Midge's delight, either. He was terribly forlorn when I finally got there - which was about 10 minutes after Camel started staring at the broken half-horse with a blank expression. The verdict on my arrival was clear. The Midge was holding back the tears and giving a half-manly shrug of his shoulders, saying that the trip had been worth it anyway. But I knew he just wanted somewhere to mourn in private. I was ready to buy him the entire shebeen's worth of N'gola.

Now I know a couple of rabid DR aficionados. One, oddly, is even called Rabbit. When my mate lent his KLR to Rabbit's friend Garth, who then rode it off a bridge into a flooded river and left it underwater for a week, he even tried to buy a DR for Tom in compensation. It wasn't long before I began to suspect that the entire stunt was an elaborate ploy to convert an unsuspecting KLR rider to DR-dom, and Tom said no on principle. Very foolish principle in retrospect, or he'd probably have been on this very trip on that very DR instead of weeping over a broken KTM, and trying to bang Portuguese backpackers in a shithole in northern Namibia to compensate. And the other is Pete - also of this forum - who Beserker made carry his entire fuel load around Angola on their recent trip. Anyway, I kind of imagined the scenes of celebration between Midge, Rabbit and Pete at the saving of Buttercup from certain death:

And know ye.... when The Midge saddles up Buttercup and rides forth into the wilds again, you may be seeing a little half-pint on a short blue and yellow motorcycle, but in his little brain, he is a giant on a thoroughbred!

Oh yes, in a cute Angolan village in the middle of nowhere, fixing Buttercup.

But first - the highlight of the village:

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the esteemed sign, on the esteemed premises, that sells the golden honey liquid called N'gola - for the less observant among you - the very source of the name of this drawn out tale. And that lovely number posted in big, bold letters: 70.00kz - means that for a generous shelling out of R7, you can have yourself a perfectly chilled - yes, even here - bottle of the stuff.

It's refreshing, it's not too bitter but never sweet, it's sparkly on the tongue, and it's the perfect beverage for a thirsty cavalero who's been wrestling with an obstinate motorcyle for an extended period in the hot sun.

This establishment was special. It sold grain:

and....

Chickens! But after our experience of the previous night we weren't going to fall for that clever trick again. There's a reason why the Scotts hang up their rabbits for - oh, I dunno, a week or two - to rot and soften the meat. And I think Angolan chickens need the same treatment. And we didn't have a week or two to hang around waiting for dinner.

Angolan men are good looking specimens:

Ok, these two doods aren't too hot. But they must be bright in some devious way... because all I ever saw them doing was drinking beer, riding motorcycles, and posing for photographs on motorcycles, while drunk:

The women, meanwhile, work...

Yup, apparently there are no qualms sending granny out with a 40 pound stick to make dinner.

Meanwhile, we set about fixing Buttercup, watched by an adoring hoard of little ones:

Buttercup is a soft little pony... perfect for a short fella... but the problem with that plan, is that every time he rode her over a bump or hump, her Sealy Posturepaedic springing would deposit the base plate on the ground with a large thwack. I'd tried to preload the spring earlier on in the trip with little effect. But since the Midge was now riding her like it was his first day out of prison, something had to be done. We grabbed a screwdriver and a rock, and compressed the spring to hell and gone and turned up all the damping right up. As you know on a DR, it goes to 11.

I also can't help but notice the Midget's testosterone induced receding hair line. These high levels of testosterone coupled with his disproportional dimensions must surely make him quite a hit with the ladies? Any inside information?

Camel, Panda & Midge, you okes are legend I haven't enjoyed a RR like this in a long time......when my wife hears me pissing myself laughing, she just say's "reading the Ngola Chronicle again ..." Thanks guy's, it must be an absolute hose riding with you guy's

Camel, Panda & Midge, you okes are legend I haven't enjoyed a RR like this in a long time......when my wife hears me pissing myself laughing, she just say's "reading the Ngola Chronicle again ..." Thanks guy's, it must be an absolute hose riding with you guy's

I know you can't wait any longer, so I'm going to have to take the reins here. I think he's stuck in Cafe Caprice for the weekend. My recommendation? Screw the camel - get a mule.

(DR 650's for world peace. Don't you dig the painted toe nails?)

I also know you love a little backtrack. Let's talk petrol.

You know what I find truly bizarre? Clearly there is a frustrated artist inside every national minister of energy affairs. You know how our stuff is green? That's pretty normal, right? Sly colour designed to make you think it's not toxic shit ruining our planet. Calming on the nerves when they're increasing the price every day until it costs more than a fine single malt?

Well, Angolan juice is yellow! Yellow?? And the Aussies's stuff is pink. Is it so spiedcops can play a funny game of what-fucking-country-are-we-in-now with drunk drivers? Confusing stuff, man... especially when you're trying to take a relaxing jaunt through a neighbouring country. Of course you only notice this with a transparent petrol tank, and not many cars have one. And then you start wondering if the dodgy shit you bought on the side of the road is actually extremely diluted used cooking oil. Not good when you're trying to use all you've got left of an N'gola-addled brain to navigate down a rutted and sandy track southwards.

The big plus of a transparent tank is you can see how much stuff you've got left. And in my case it was always less than I expected. Until two weeks before this trip I rode a BMX with a range of a camel, and I was keeping my fancy new toy on the road with a collection of fuel bags stuffed into my panniers. But after the Doodsakker we didn't strictly need those, and it was a pain, so I didn't use them. Which meant I had to fill up often.... which is never a problem in Angola.

Remember this?

R6 petrol. Well that's only in the major centres. In the slightly smaller towns on main roads, they also have them, but there a funny little game is played in the interests of Angolan entrepreneurship. See, despite having half the oil fields of Saudi Arabia, you'd be mistaken for thinking that there was a shortage of fuel outside of the cities. What happens is huge truck arrives carrying yellow magic. Cue vey large queue of petrol scalps who buy all said petrol and cart it away in big drums. Then they set themselves up on every street corner - sometimes only 2km away from said petrol station, and sell it in little green bottles - like wine bottles - with these flip off plastic lids.... for R10 a litre! Genius.

OK, there's an upside too... which is that in just about any tiny little hamlet in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, you can also buy petrol-by-the-wine-bottle for R10. Fair enough... suits me with the fuel carrying capacity of a thimble.

So, after our camel-apple-head-target-practice incident yesterday we were about to turn off the main road and scoot down through the bush for three days, and I was dry. No problem.

You have to admire community spirit. I mean where in Cape Town can you pull into a petrol station and immediately be surrounded by a throng of thirty well wishes commending you on the fine looks of your steed, or enquiring about its fuel range or magnificent strong tyres, or just generally shooting the shit and enjoying a break in the midday sun??

Nowhere, right? They're all too busy schnaffling up cocktails at Cafe Caprice and perving the hot 21 year olds. Or welding up luggage racks.

These guys were fancy - they actually had a filter on the end of that funnel.